John Berryman

The high ones die, die. They die. You look up and who’s there? €”Easy, easy, Mr Bones. I is on your side. I smell your grief. €”I sent my grief away. I cannot care

Bats have no bankers and they do not drink And cannot be arrested and pay no tax And, in general, bats have it made. Henry for joining the human race is bats, Known to

Down on the cathedrals, as from the Giralda In a land no crueller, and over the walls To domes & river look From Great John’s belfry, Ivan-Veliky, Whose thirty-one are still To hail who

Sick at 6 & sick again at 9 Was Henry’s gloomy Monday morning oh. Still he had to lecture. They waited, his little children, for stricken Henry To rise up yet once more again

Her properties, like her of course & frisky & new: A stale cake sold to kids, a 7-foot weed Inside in the Great Neck night, A record (‘great’), her work all over as u-

He loom’ so cagey he say ‘Leema beans’ And measured his intake to the atmosphere Of that fairly stable country. His ear hurt. Left. The rock-cliffs, a mite sheer At his age, in these

This is the lay of Ike. Here’s to the glory of the Grewt WhiteГўв‚”awkГўв‚” Who has been runningГўв‚”erГўв‚”erГўв‚”things in recentГўв‚”echГўв‚” In the UnitedГўв‚”If your screen is black, Ladies & gentlemen, weГўв‚”I likeГўв‚” At the

Cedars and the westward sun. The darkening sky. A man alone Watches beside the fallen wall The evening multitudes of sin Crowd in upon us all. For when the light fails they begin Nocturnal